


Siamese Dream

by UNHhhh



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emo Katya, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-29 20:17:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10861323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UNHhhh/pseuds/UNHhhh
Summary: In the pictures, I’m smiling from ear to ear, and it’s reaching my eyes. I’m doing a stupid Prom pose with Trixie and she looks so stunning, she looks like she’s reached the pinnacle of her existence.At the reception I’m dancing like I’m on fire, and I am. It’s invisible, it’s a fire that’s in my soul and it’s burning bright, bright for Trixie, it’s burning brighter because it’s about to go out.





	Siamese Dream

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know, guys. I love this so much. It just fell out of my head- I think maybe I channeled something that wasn't supposed to leave someone's diary.
> 
> Listen to Smashing Pumpkin's 'Mayonnaise' while you read and you'll have a religious experience: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MElfYleGIVU&ab_channel=raichugordo

What are you supposed to feel when you’re the best man at your best friend’s wedding, you’re straightening his bowtie, touching his face, and you’re in love with him?

And his fiancé, he’s so handsome and smart, and he takes care of your friend and he knows how to cook and lord knows Trix never would learn that. And you wouldn’t either. And he’s always been nice to you, he never said you two were too close, he thought it was funny when you tried to get Trixie to make out with you.

When you’re staring at yourself in the bathroom mirror in the spacious beachside villa and you’re gripping the sink, you’re biting your lip and your eyes are sad and you can’t stop them. When you’re red in the whites, you’re white in the beige and your hair’s getting gray from all the times you held in those words that are pushing at your lips constantly. When you have to march out there like a good friend and be there for Trix, even though the last thing you want to do is watch her go to the man you know is the best choice for her, even though you want to collapse into a sobbing, screaming, tantrum-throwing heap on the ground and just yell.

I pick myself up and I rub down this errant crease in my suit that’s been bugging the shit out of Trixie this entire wedding venture. It pops back up; I can just hold my arm over it, I guess.

One more look in the mirror, I can hear the event coordinator shouting for “Places, everyone!” and I can see my eyes aren’t getting any clearer. I smile in the mirror- it doesn’t even reach my nose. My teeth just look horrifying without the crinkles in my eyes.

I look like a Ventriloquist dummy, chattering away with the other groomsmen, I can hear Trixie in my head saying, “Please, please, it would mean so much to me, I’m sorry, I am, it would mean so much.” I can feel my chest pounding and driving my jaw to open and shit out a gab that I don’t even comprehend myself, but that might be the most natural part of me right now.

We’re all here, all twelve of us good men, we’re wearing powder blue suits on Trixie’s side and her fiance’s side is wearing traditional black and we look like two halves of a penguin I once saw during an acid trip in Montreal. We’re all so excited, some of us are married, we’re showing off our solid bands, one of us has a little gem implanted into his and he says it’s for their kid, I’m trying not to throw up.

Luke comes over to me and claps me on the shoulder in his black suit. He says I look pretty bad, man, shouldn’t I sit down a bit? It’s hot outside and we’ll be standing forever and I know he’s right because Trixie can never say anything succinctly and I was there when she wrote her five page confessional two nights prior. And I know her fiancé is the same way and they’re just made for each other.

So I sit on a yellow chair and I don’t think about her. I remember I have cigarettes in my pocket, and I excuse myself from that cavernous, wide waiting area, that foyer of promises and white rose petals. I go outside, and I lean against someone’s old red Buick, there’s soup cans tied to the bumper and resting on the hot black pavement.

‘Just Married. Honk if you’re LGBTQ+ friendly!’

My cigarette has never been lit faster and it’s halfway to the filter before I even realize it.

Mom says she doesn’t feel bad for me. She says I had my chance, and I did, she’s right. There was a time Trixie looked at me the same way she looks at her fiancé, and I could have jumped. I could have.

I held myself back, though.

I’m not for her. I am not for Trixie Mattel’s consumption, not even really for her consideration, though her laugh when she considers my deepest thoughts in front of a camera sets me alight like Hiroshima. I’m a blown up, dried out husk of a man and it’s all because I met someone who I was never meant for, but who was for me completely. And there’s other things, of course. I’ve never treated my body fairly and though I’m ripped to hell and back and I can do the splits on any dick in the world, on any stage in the world drowning in dollar bills, I can’t do the splits on someone’s heart. (That’s disgustingly saccharine.) I can’t take the leap I need to get over myself and just take because I’m scared.

I’m not a Trixie or her fiancé. I’m the old man sitting at the back of the small audience. He’s leaning on his cane between his legs, he’s fully invested in this homosexual love transaction and I can see myself in his reddened eyes, his ashy skin and white hair. I’m not too far off. I’m thirty feet away.

I’m standing behind Trixie and I can see her bald spot on her head that’s been growing more with her Two Birds tour and I want to kiss it, sprinkle holy water over it or something.

I want to smash the glass in the towel.

And we’re back to her pulling out that mound of folded paper from her back pocket, I’ve got the words memorized and so does she but her eyes are glued to the paper anyway, and I’m hearing the words she was crying over during her bachelor party that was just us two, curled up on a couch, talking about life and she was drinking white wine and I was smoking a blunt and she asked me for advice. And I couldn’t give it to her.

“What do you do when you’re in love with someone and you’re scared they could never love you back enough to match?”

My heart had stopped. I could have told her, “Thanks for calling me out, ya bitch, here’s your powder blue suit back that washes me out and here are the pristine leather shoes I’ll never wear again. And here are my love letters I wrote to you when I was bored in my hotel rooms during my countless tours and hours traversing the world, and here is the cord, thin as spider silk, keeping me attached to you. Here are my personal effects, I’m going to jump out your apartment window now and fade into the blackness of the Valley below. I love you. Goodnight.”

Instead, I told her, “But you’re unlovable! You know that. This marriage is just a way to get back at your family, right?”

And Trixie had laughed through the little tear that had escaped down her face. She had leaned over and kissed my temple, like when Mom kissed me when I came home from school depressed and dehydrated and she would hand me a Pedialyte and send me off to my bedroom with the loud Goth music and blue lightbulbs.

It’s her fiance’s turn, and I’m listening hard. I’m waiting for any moment where I need to slip out from behind Trixie and protest, grab her small fistful of flowers and toss them over my shoulder and take off in that red Buick with her.

But he gets it right. He says the things my heart has been longing to say forever. I smile, even though High School Katya is writhing deep down inside, cursing and gesturing wildly with a knife towards his general direction.

I’m smiling because he’s right. Trixie _is_ like when you wake up on a Summer day and the birds are already chirping. She _is_ like the first swim in a new pool, she’s like the happy smell of chlorine and the eyes the men give you at the spa. Trixie is the wind on a fall night, she’s the smiling baby across the restaurant that wants to play Peek A Boo with you. Trixie is the man of my dreams.

In the pictures, I’m smiling from ear to ear, and it’s reaching my eyes. I’m doing a stupid Prom pose with Trixie and she looks so stunning, she looks like she’s reached the pinnacle of her existence.

At the reception I’m dancing like I’m on fire, and I am. It’s invisible, it’s a fire that’s in my soul and it’s burning bright, bright for Trixie, it’s burning brighter because it’s about to go out.

I dance myself into a stupor. I’m sweating through my cornflower blue dress shirt and I’m smoking outside, much needed, fisting a glass of water and staring at the low sunset. I don’t have sunglasses on and I’m staring directly into the sun and it hurts, but maybe it will give me an excuse because Trixie’s out here now and she’s watching me cry into my water glass, chain smoking away, and I’m not staring back.

“Are you gonna be okay?” She’s asking in that soft voice that I know she only saves for the ones she loves the most, when she’s scared she’s gone and done something wrong or taken a joke too far with them.

I look over at her even though I don’t want to and I can see the tears in her own eyes. She’s going to cry too and she’s going to ruin the light layer of makeup and mascara she put on so carefully that afternoon.

So I wipe her tears away with the white pocket square she forced me to wear in this stupid suit, the pocket square I shoved in my actual pants pocket as soon as the pictures had been taken because I hated it so much. I’m pressing at her lower eyelids like my old drag queen friends taught me to do back home in Boston so I wouldn’t ruin my makeup and she’s sniffling a little.

But Trixie isn’t sobbing, and this flavor of tear has been cried before. She’s getting it out of her, and so am I.

I nod.

“When am I ever not okay?”

“You seemed pretty fucked up the night he proposed to me.”

“I’m always fucked up. That’s how I’m always okay. My base level of okay is just borderline psychotic and I just live there.”

That joke falls flat- we both know it’s a little too close to the truth. Instead, I opt to let her in on a secret.

“I love you like I’ve never loved anyone else besides myself.” She laughs at that. I’m still touching her face even though I don’t need to. “I hope you always remember how much I love you. How much I wish I could give you this.”

“I know.” Her lower lip is quivering. Trixie’s eyes are glassy again, Mom. Mom I don’t know what to say, I thought I was doing good. “I wanted this from you. But I don’t think there’s a universe where it would work out.”

“If universes are infinite, there is one. It’s very small and it’s way far away and like, no one thinks about it ever, but it’s there. I think about it.”

I live there.

“I love you, Katya.”

“I love you too, Trixie. _Mazal_.”

And Trixie laughs and smiles that goofy smile, and then she kisses me on the lips. And my cigarette has been burnt out for minutes now but it could come back to fiery life if I just pressed it against my skin because I am burning with passion and desire and happiness.

Trixie Mattel is happy.

I’m driving back to my apartment and I’m thinking about how Trixie Mattel is happy, and the Smashing Pumpkins are playing and Trixie is my Lily My One And Only and my Spaceboy and my Hummer.

 And I sink into the music and I’m driving through the city and I am free.


End file.
